Orchids or Lilies, Eggshell or Ivory
by a quirky little tune
Summary: Eames walks into a bar. Stops. Sees the man he's going to marry. Then goes over to introduce himself and sort of, kind of proposes. In that order. EamesArthur


**Title: **Orchids or Lilies, Eggshell or Ivory

**Pairings: **Eames/Arthur

**Genre: **Romance

**Summary: **Eames walks into a bar. Stops. Sees the man he's going to marry. And then he introduces himself.

**AN: **I don't own _Inception_, its wonderful characters, or its astounding storyline. This is just a quirky little oneshot to appease my desire to finally write an Eames/Arthur story. Gosh, I love them! Posted on my livejournal as well, if by some freak chance, you also read it there.

**Warnings: **None that I can think of. Except Eames being a kind of loveable creep =)

* * *

**Orchids or Lilies, Eggshell or Ivory**

by _a quirky little tune_

Eames walks into a bar in one of the shadier London areas and sees a man with slicked back hair sitting at a table in the back. The man is all leanness and clean lines, dressed to the nines in a black suit that is only slightly less charming than the sturdy, statuesque features of the man's face. He's utterly gorgeous and stands out brilliantly in the establishment most fondly known to its patrons as Lucifer's Dive.

Something _right_ fills an empty space in Eames that he didn't even realize existed. Just as he knows that he is allergic to strawberries, that his teeth will never be straight, and that he can forge any painting down to the exact pressure the artist put on his brush, he just _knows_ that this is the man he is going to marry. The realization is a beautiful one, if not slightly surprising in its sheer strength and suddenness. Eames shrugs and goes with this crazy, crazy flow and saunters over to where his almost-fiancé-husband-to-be is nursing a full tumbler of whiskey. He notices in an instant that this man is not a man of nonsense or frivolities, so he decides it's probably best to be honest and upfront with him.

Dark eyes glance up as he takes the opposite seat, but the man says nothing. That's fine, it's probably better if Eames starts anyway.

"Do you prefer orchids or lilies?" he asks. There are a lot of things that he wants to ask, but figures that a simple question is probably the easiest way to break the ice.

At the very least, the question causes the young man – Eames guesses he's probably in his mid to late twenties – to look Eames straight in the eyes. "Excuse me?" There's part annoyance and part genuine confusion in those two words and the British man knows that if he'd had any doubts before, hearing this man's husky voice would certainly eliminate them all.

Honesty, Eames reminds himself, be upfront with him, as he replies, "Orchids or lilies? For our wedding."

Something shuts off in the man's face and only vague disgust remains visible. While not the best reaction to Eames' sort-of-proposal, Eames still enjoys the reaction for the simple reason that it is a _reaction_ and he's already learning all sorts of things about his future husband.

"I have to say," the man says in a dry, clipped tone, "That is the absolute _worst_ pick-up line I've ever heard."

"Oh, darling," he laughs from his chest, the endearment rolling right off his tongue naturally, "That wasn't a pick-up line, that was a proposal. Or is it more of a promise? I _am_ going to marry you one day. Hopefully sooner, rather than later, but I assure you that I can be as patient as need be." He looks thoughtfully at the expression of scorn on the man's face. "And as persistent as need be."

"Perhaps you can also be as perceptive as need be and realize I'm not interested," the man snaps back, eyes narrow and shoulders stiff.

"You're interested," Eames shoots back easily, confidently, "You may not feel as strongly about it as I do, but you definitely feel something. I just came up to your table and told you we are going to get married – there's no way you wouldn't be interested in why a stranger would do that." He thinks about that for a second. "I forgot to ask your name, love!"

The man disregards that last statement with a scowl. "I don't need to think about it – you're either an overconfident lout who thinks that a person will just fall into his arms from a horrible pick-up line, or you're just crazy. I can't say which I prefer at this time." His scowl darkens. "And being interested in someone and finding someone interesting are two completely different things!"

Chuckling, Eames wags a finger. "Ahh, but one often begets the other, didn't you know, darling?"

His future husband sighs tiredly and Eames is pretty sure that the man does not yet notice just how close he has inched to Eames and how his body is now angled to face Eames completely. "Don't call me that."

"Well then, give me your name."

He twitches and seems to weigh the odds. Finally, the young man relents and says grudgingly, "Arthur."

It suits him very well. Eames raises a brow, though, and keeps fishing. "You have a last name to go along with that fine first name?"

For the first time, Arthur smirks; it's hidden behind his whiskey tumbler as he takes a sip, but Eames can still see it through the thick glass and in the crinkles around Arthur's beautiful eyes. He retorts, "Not one that you'll be privy to."

"Ouch," Eames gasps, clutching his heart but smiling all the while. "You wound me, Arthur What's-His-Name."

"Well?" Arthur suddenly looks impatient and a little annoyed. Not so much that he's annoyed at Eames, but more because he's annoyed at himself that he's impatient at all.

"Well what?"

"I told you my name," he offers testily, seemingly irritated at his own curiosity, "isn't it polite to do the same?"

And Eames lets a slow smile curl on his face and figures he's made decent enough progress today – much more than he originally thought he would. He pulls a pen from his pocket and whips the damp napkin out from under Arthur's empty glass. When he's finished scribbling on it, he slides it back over the table, winks, and leaves a staring Arthur in the back of an establishment most fondly known to its patrons as Lucifer's Dive.

Five minutes later, as he rounds a corner, Eames' cell phone goes off. He smiles at the unknown number that flashes on the screen and picks it up cheerfully. "'Ello, Arthur."

"How did you kno – no, never mind," Arthur breathes out angrily, sounding tense. "Has anyone ever told you that your penmanship needs a lot of work? You left me a messy phone number that I was just barely able to read correctly and a word that looks like E-i-is that an 'n'? E-i-n-e-r? What the hell is that? And you still haven't told me your name."

Arthur is apparently the type that despises things left unclear or unsaid. This will definitely work to Eames' advantage. "Arthur," Eames says fondly, overcome with affection for a man he barely knows, "That _is_ my name."

"Einer?" the other asks in disbelief.

Eames snorts. "That would be quite the shoddy name, wouldn't it? No, no, love, my name is Eames. Since you didn't give me your last name, I thought it appropriate to withhold my first."

A beat, then, "How could this scrawl _possibly_ say 'Eames'?"

"It does, I swear it. I may be a piss-poor speller, but I can guarantee my own name is something I won't get wrong." Eames laughs. "Arthur, is that all you called me for? You wanted to know my name?" There's silence on the other line, so Eames sees it fit to march on, "Seems to me that you're just a little more interested in me than you said you were – isn't that so?"

Arthur hangs up abruptly, but that's fine; Eames just happily programs the unknown number into his phone as 'Arthur Eames'. It's a bit presumptuous of him, considering Arthur seems like the type to want to keep his own last name when married, or, at the very least, hyphenate the two, but Eames shrugs and blames it on his husband-to-be for not providing his own last name when asked.

When he gets back to his own apartment, he thinks to pull out his phone and set up a quick text message. It reads:

_goodnite arthur whatshisname =) by th way do u prefer egshell or ivery for our wedding?_

And Arthur, efficient and professional as the lines of his suit, replies two minutes later:

_Do not text this number again, Mr. Eames._

Thirty seconds later:

_You really are a piss-poor speller, aren't you?_

Eames grins crookedly, sits back and enjoys a cool beer. It's the start of a beautiful relationship.

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_This story was meant to be longer - maybe even chaptered, but when I actually started writing it, it just kind of took over and ended itself. I freaking LOVE when that happens! I hope you guys enjoyed, thank you so much for taking the time to read this!_

_Sincerely,_

**a quirky little tune**


End file.
